


The Death of a King

by Saber_Wing



Category: Avengers Assemble (Cartoon), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Tragedy, Avalon Protocol, Blood, Blood and Gore, Body Horror, Graphic Description, Hurt No Comfort, M/M, Major Character Injury, Serious Injuries, Tragedy, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-13
Updated: 2020-08-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:14:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25885663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Saber_Wing/pseuds/Saber_Wing
Summary: "Activate the Avalon Protocol."There was no coming back from this.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 26
Kudos: 155





	The Death of a King

**Author's Note:**

> This is something I've been wanting to do, ever since I saw the beautiful fanart/works floating around. Many of you have probably heard of it: the Avalon Protocol. That idea, in and of itself, does not belong to me. I wasn't the brilliant person to come up with it. And, I think this may actually be a bingo square in an event going on or something, I don't really know. I don't pay much attention.
> 
> That said, this story is grim. There is no silver lining.
> 
> Read at your own risk.

Tony gasped wordlessly, muting his coms. He planted his feet on the ground as the triceratops pressed its advantage, thrusting its horns deeper into the gaping hole rent through his chest plate. He coughed, safe behind the helmet, blood thick and metallic on his tongue. It burst from his lips, and he choked a mouthful of it back, breathtaking pain erupting from his gut.

_“Armor breached. Critical hit to the lower right abdominal cavity.”_

The A.I.’s voice was matter-of-fact. Almost hesitant, as the beasts of the Savage Land roared around them. Tony was surrounded. One in front. One in back. Who knew how many along the sides, boxing him in.

“Yeah. Noticed.” Tony managed a ragged chuckle. “L-Lay it on me, J.”

_“Your liver, gallbladder, and one of your kidneys, as well as your intestines, have all suffered severe damage. I must insist you seek immediate medical attention.”_

A cold sweat broke out on Tony’s brow. He clutched at the horn eviscerating his gut, and the beast threw its head back. Yanked it from his wound. Only one of the three had hit, though the distinction mattered little.

What mattered was, that horn had been the only thing holding Tony together, and now?

It was gone.

Tony lifted his arm. Clutched at his abdomen, almost drunkenly. He glanced down. Found his intestines, wrapped in a shaking, gauntlet-clad hand. A deluge of blood streamed down his leg, and it was everywhere. Pooling in his boot. Snaking through the cracks in his armor. Soaking his undersuit, and leaving him chilled to the bone.

_“I calculate your odds of survival at one-point three percent.”_

Tears carved a path down Tony's cheeks. Merged with the rivulets of blood draining down the sides of his mouth.

It was like that, then.

He coughed, no stranger to drowning in his own lungs. Tony was usually a pro at struggling, at keeping his airway clear. _Was_. But the cobwebs were spreading now, in ways they never had before. The cobwebs were spreading, and he couldn’t breathe.

“A-Ac…”

He choked, spat out a mouthful of blood. Gathered his strength for one more attempt. “Activate…the _Avalon Protocol_.”

A beat of silence.

_“…you’re certain?”_

The A.I.’s voice was somber.

Tony was a futurist. He made the impossible, possible. Built metal suits in caves with boxes of scraps. He’d walked for nearly a day through the Afghani desert and lived to tell the tale. He’d been chewed up, spit out, and hung out to dry. He’d suffered kidnappings, assassination attempts, alien uprisings. Near death experiences were normal for him. Just another Tuesday.

He’d been living on borrowed time.

It wasn't enough. He wasn't ready. He didn’t want to die like _this_.

“A-Alpha…” Blood bubbled from his lips. Organs shutting down one by one. “Tango…omicron...foxtrot.”

 _“I will do my best, sir.”_ J.A.R.V.I.S was solemn, voice tinged with sadness. _“You have my word.”_

Tony could have been imagining that: the sadness, but it was what he had to hold on to. It was _a_ _ll_ he had.

He wanted to hear Steve’s voice. Wanted to hold his hand. He didn’t want to die, fighting _dinosaurs_ in the middle of nowhere.

The armor joints stiffened as J.A.R.V.I.S locked them down. Iron Man thrust the triceratops back with a repulsor to the face, holding the beasts at bay. All the while, Tony struggled to focus through his darkening vision. He hated the dark. Caves were _so_ dark, at night.

Through the rising tide of beasts, the crowd was parting. Slowly, too slowly, and Tony glimpsed the barest hint of Steve’s face. Dirty, drenched with sweat. Screaming into his com, kilometers away.

He wanted to open a channel, _so_ badly. He didn’t want to die _alone._ Tony sobbed behind the faceplate: once, the edges of it, ragged.

He wanted to tell Steve he loved him, but his voice would give him away.

Tony was going to die, no matter what his team did now. The damage was too severe. The Avengers needed their Captain on the field, guiding the way. They needed Iron Man, keeping them safe.

This way, they could have both.

There was no coming back from this. No soldering iron to weld him together. No improvisation, to get him out of it. Darkness was closing in, blackening the edges of his vision.

Tony clung stubbornly to the scraps of light he had left. To that shrinking circle, getting smaller and smaller. He fought the edges of that darkness. He was going down, but God _damn_ it, it wasn't without a fight.

Steve’s battle-worn face was there in front of him—magnified, so Tony could see him better. Maybe J.A.R.V.I.S. was a little more human than his circuits implied.

_“Shall I record a message for Captain Rogers, sir?”_

Tony was grateful. He was grateful because he couldn’t have asked. He couldn’t have managed the words. Could he even _speak_ now, with the strength he had left?

Tony had to try. He had to have three more words. Just three.

One more time. Please. One more time.

“I…”

He choked. Blood exploded from his lips. He couldn’t fight his way through it. Not this time.

Tony was _out_ of time.

The darkness won.

* * *

The battle was won.

Steve strapped his shield to his back, accepting an amicable slap on the shoulder from his teammate. “Good work, Hawkeye. Impeccable shooting, as always.”

Clint grinned, plucking a stray arrow from the ground as they walked. “Nothing says Tuesday more than shooting pterodactyls in the face. Am I right?”

Steve shook his head indulgently. He glanced around, frowning when he didn’t see Iron Man.

Tony had been silent on coms for a while, though he’d continued to fight alongside them. Likely, he’d suffered some damage, though Iron Man was too far away for Steve to get a good look. He’d be along shortly, Steve was sure.

Hawkeye stopped dead. Steve nearly slammed into him, the change in stride was so abrupt.

“Woah!” he side-stepped, shooting his teammate an admonishing glare. “Watch it, soldier. I almost—"

Clint’s face was _white._

“What is it?” Steve broke off, followed his line of sight. "What's—"

Iron Man was standing in a clearing, beside a pile of corpses.

“I was about to send out a search party for you there, Shellhead." Steve smiled. "You okay? We couldn't hear you on coms."

Tony didn’t reply.

There was something odd about the way he stood, arms held stiffly at his sides. Back, ramrod straight. Steve frowned, eyes traveling down his --

Oh.

Oh, God.

Steve’s feet were moving. He was in front of Iron Man.

His intestines were hanging from his gut.

Draped over his leg, like a pile of nooses. A canopy of ropes, layered over themselves.

Those needed to be _inside_ him. They…he…

He had to _fix_ this.

Steve took them in hand, gently, _gently_. He had to…

Oh _God, oh God, oh God—_

“The _Avalon Protocol_ has been active for precisely thirty-nine minutes and fifteen seconds. Mr. Stark has been deceased for thirty-seven minutes and…”

No.

_No._

“No, no, no, no, no, no.” A litany of denials tore from his throat. He shook his head.

_No, no, please, no…_

“Tony, open the faceplate!” This was all one big misunderstanding. Steve needed to fix this. He could _fix this—_

“He cannot answer you, Captain. I must ask that you relay your override codes,” J.A.R.V.I.S. replied, in the same level monotone. Berating him. _Mocking_ him.

“Open the face plate, _right_ now! _”_

One of the others dared to approach him. Gripped his shoulder, gently.

Steve thrust them away with both arms, _pushed_ them away.

"I _know_ you can hear me!" His voice broke, shattered, on the edge of a scream. “ _Tony!_

Steve grasped the armor by both shoulders. Shook it, erratically. He fumbled for the emergency releases. Sobbed out his override codes. The faceplate snapped open. The armor fell away. Piece by piece. And Tony pitched forward, dead weight.

Dead.

Dead.

Dead, dead, _dead—_

His eyes were open. Tears were drying on his cheeks. Blood soaked his goatee, crusted around his nose. It was pooling in the hollow of his throat. Running down his neck, his chest. Everywhere. God almighty, it was _everywhere._

Steve _couldn't_ fix this.

His skin had a ghostly pallor. The color, gone from his cheeks. Steve could feel a vestige of warmth clinging there when he touched it.

Steve smoothed the stray edges of his goatee down. There was nothing Tony hated more than unkempt facial hair. He didn't have his straight-razor with him, and it needed a trim.

“You can’t do this,” he choked, incredulous. He held Tony at arm’s length. Shook him, violently.

Tony, of course, did not reply.

“You can’t _leave_ me!” Steve screamed, _shrieked,_ and he didn’t recognize his voice. Tinny, and thick with grief. _“Tony…”_

He whispered his name. A promise, just for the two of them. 

Steve collapsed on top of Tony, heedless of the blood seeping through his uniform shirt. It was warm. Steve could _feel_ it, clinging to his lover's pale flesh. It was good, that Tony was warm.

He'd be cold, soon. 

Steve pressed their foreheads together. Pressed his _body_ closer, chasing that warmth. He gazed into those deep brown eyes, lifeless, and wrong.

Tony’s eyes were _never_ wrong. They were passion and _fire._

They were the sun, and they would never rise again.

“He was _fighting_!” Clint screamed. Raw. Broken. “He was right there, this whole time, and you’re telling me he’s been dead for _forty-five minutes!?”_

J.A.R.V.I.S.’s tone was not unkind. Perhaps it _was_ as kind as an artificial being could conceive.

_“Mr. Stark implemented the Avalon Protocol as a precaution, upon the completion of his armor. Captain Rogers knows this. In the event of his death, he wished for me to carry on in his stead. Continue the fight, to its conclusion.”_

Clint started laughing. He started laughing.

He didn’t stop.

“This can’t be it.” Steve heard the words slip from his own tongue. His tone, flat. "There has to be..."

The other Avengers had gathered, mute with shock and disbelief. Steve barely saw them. His vision blurred. His breath quickened.

“W-We can use my blood, to make a serum. We can—"

“Steve.” Natasha was kneeling in the dirt, cradling Tony’s hand between both of hers. Her green eyes were steady, though tears stood in them. One streaked down her cheek as he watched. Her voice was hard, belying her grief. “He’s gone.”

“No.” Steve shook his head, incessantly. If he never stopped denying, it would never be over.

“ _Steve._ He’s _dead_.”

He clutched Tony to his chest. Sat motionless, covered in dirt. Spreading more blood down his front as it pooled around them.

They brought in a team from S.H.I.E.L.D. sometime later, for evac, and still he sat. Rocking gently, well into the night.

People were crying.

 _“You have to let us take him,”_ they said. _“You have to let him go.”_

He was dead.

His once. His future. His _King._

Steve rocked his cold corpse and wept into the dark.


End file.
